The Matter of Living
by Tuff Destroyer
Summary: It has been millennia since the Order of Chaos was last seen. Some say they are a myth. But the gods aren't. Now, they are engaged in a war against the Titans and their leader, Kronos. In this war, Percy Jackson fights-trying not only to keep his men safe, but also himself. The first book in The Archives of Chaos.


Title: _The Matter of Living_

Saga: _The Archives of Chaos_

Author: Tuff Destroyer

Summary: It has been millennia since the Order of Chaos was last seen. Some say they are a myth. But the gods aren't. Now, they are engaged in a war against the Titans and their leader, Kronos. In this war, Percy Jackson fights-trying not only to keep his men safe, but also himself.

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Prelude

* * *

MILLENNIA AGO

Heron stumbled around a rock and stopped in front of a _Hecatoncheir_, his sword, _Anaklisis_, in hand. The fantastic beast lay face down on the earth, devoid of life. Its ribs were broken, and its hundred arms lay limp at its side. Each of its fifty heads had closed eyes, unable to again raise thunder. He then made his sword vanish.

Even after all his battles with these giants, seeing one up close made Heron shiver. One of its feet could crush five men, and he was no stranger to its weight. He had been killed by it once before.

It was not pleasant.

He surveyed the battlefield—that wasn't very pleasant either. Dead bodies littered the ground; mountains were scarred with cracks; a field of flowers was blasted away, like the gods had scooped it away.

He continued on. He would usually find giant footprints on the ground, although they appeared less frequently as he got closer to his destination. A cacophony of misery and suffering hung in the air: moans of pain, cries of grief. There was no victory for them to be had.

_But I survived_, Heron thought. _I actually survived this time_.

However, he still had to go. When he died, he went back to _that place_. When he survived, he still had to go back to _that place_. But what would happen if he just didn't go? What would happen if he just stayed here?

He dispelled the treacherous, even traitorous thought from his mind. He went on his way.

The place they decided to meet was hidden behind the shadow of a rock. As usual, they decided the location before the battle. Every time, the survivors would meet up here. Weirdly enough, only one person waited for him. Aristos. Had the others died?

Upon a closer look, he was proven wrong. Nine ornate swords stood proudly, driven into the ground. Each held a powerful, regal air, blessed with Chaos' grace. He recognized each one, matching each sword to a face in his mind. If their masters should die, the swords would vanish with them.

These swords were the most powerful weapons on Earth, equipped with power beyond imagination. They were crafted by the Creator, after all.

"Aristos?"

The figure that had waited for him glanced at him. Even after all the centuries, Aristos still looked young. His face was neat, though his clothing was torn and stained with blood. He wore a solemn look upon his face.

"Where are the others?" Heron asked.

"Departed." Aristos' voice was calm, powerful, imposing. He was the leader of the Order, it was only fitting that he carried himself like a king. "Only one of us died this time."

"Linos." His sword was the only one unaccounted for.

"Indeed. He died over there, fighting off the enemy." Aristos pointed at a bridge.

Heron nodded. Linos had a habit of entering hopeless battles, and often ended up winning them. But this also usually resulted in his death. Now he was back _there_. The place they went to when Chaos felt they weren't needed. The place of nightmares.

Heron found himself shaking at the thought of returning. Had he always been so weak? "Aristos, I can't return this time. I've had enough." He stepped up and urgently gripped the other man's arm. "There's no way that I can."

Heron felt something break within him at the confession. How long had he endured it? It was so hard to tell. They would lay in the darkness, in nothingness, until they were needed again. No sense of anything going on. They could feel no touch, hear no sounds, taste no air, and see no sight. It could drive a man mad.

"Leave your sword," Aristos said.

"What?"

Aristos walked to the ring of swords. "They had me wait for you. We made a decision: this cycle of darkness has to end."

Fear tingled Heron's spine. "What will happen?"

"Nikomedes believes that if one of us stays bound to _that place_, it may be enough to end our suffering."

Heron looked into his leaders eyes. Behind him, anguish: nature was destroyed, and the groans of pain haunted him like ghosts. There, in Aristos' eyes, Heron saw the same anguish. As painful nature felt, Aristos' eyes were filled with the same tint. This man hung by a thread from falling into darkness.

_Oh, gods_. Heron thought. _You're broken too, aren't you?_ They all were.

Heron turned and climbed the rock that hid their meeting place.

There was so much pain. There were more corpses than living bodies. Men in primitive linen clothing maneuvered themselves around the bodies. Dispersed among the living were others in gleaming armor. Half-bloods. A group of them walked past the common men, who were donned with ragged skin and shoddy leather. Such a gap.

Aristos stepped up beside him.

"We're all that they have, Aristos. They see us as gods. The ones above haven't come down in centuries," Heron whispered. In response, the heavens thundered.

"But they still watch us," Aristos said as he looked up to the sky. "They have the demigods. It will be fine."

Heron shook his head. "You know that won't be enough. He'll find a way around it."

"Perhaps." The leader of the Order gave no further explanation.

"What about Linos?" Heron asked. _The darkness. The deafness. All of that for centuries_...

"Better one man suffer than twelve," whispered Aristos. He seemed so cold. He was a shadow of his former self. It was as if his previous glory shone over his body, leaving this sorry imitation behind.

Aristos walked back to the ring of swords. He summoned his own blade to his hand, looking at it for one last time. "It has been decided, Heron. We will go our separate ways, and we will not seek out one another. We leave our blades here. This all ends now." He raised his sword and rammed it into the ground.

Aristos hesitated. He looked at the sword, then turned away. He felt uncomfortable, as if ashamed. "We took his offer up willingly. We should be able to drop it if we wish."

"What do we tell the people, Aristos?" Heron asked. "What will they say about today?"

"Simple," Aristos said. "We tell them what they've always wanted to hear: that they finally won. Who knows? It might even be true."

Heron watched as Aristos left. In the end, he summoned his own blade and rammed it into the ground beside the other ten. He turned and walked away, opposite Aristos.

However, he could not help but glance back at what he—they—was leaving behind. He focused on the empty spot, where the twelfth blade should have gone.

The one they had abandoned.

_Please forgive us_.

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**A/N:** This is my attempt at a fanfic. It was sorta inspired by this book that I've been reading. Hopefully, it goes well. Please review (so that I can know what I can do better), and thanks for reading. See you guys next chapter.


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